


Roll Away the Stone

by minkhollow



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Grief/Mourning, Multi, blasphemous headcanons ahoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:47:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23204944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minkhollow/pseuds/minkhollow
Summary: Crowley and Easter don't get along.
Relationships: Crowley & Jesus (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 33





	Roll Away the Stone

**Author's Note:**

> Here I am, back on my 'what's grief can I eat it stories' bullshit. What can I say, I have a fondness for them, and Feelings about Crowley's interactions with Jesus.
> 
> The handful of you who read my Bernard and the Genie crossover have already seen a little bit of the underpinnings at work here, namely Jesus/Mary Magdalene as 'panromantic ace guy marries lesbian friend to spare her public scrutiny and because they both don't want kids.' I wanted to dig into that tidbit more properly, in addition to using it there.

December is a slightly complex time for Crowley, all things considered.

From a professional standpoint (ex-professional, these days), it’s the easiest time of year for him by a long shot, in recent decades. Between people’s annoyance over waiting in line several hours for hot deals, people’s annoyance over having to work catering to the people who waited in line several hours for hot deals, and people’s annoyance over the very existence of hot deals one has to wait in line several hours for, he barely has to lift a finger - which is good, since he insists on staying in the part of the world turning to the cold and dark. A well-placed traffic jam or must-have rare commodity could keep him out of trouble with Hell right through to March.

The problem is why the humans are doing all this.

In six millennia and change, Crowley received hundreds of commendations for his work. Most of them were for things he had no hand in, with a pretty even split between ‘took credit’ and ‘was given credit before he even heard about the depravity in question.’ Several drove him to blackout drinking, or made him wish the option was available. In all that time, he’s only outright refused to accept two.

The first commendation Crowley refused was for the Children’s Crusade. (Ironically, Heaven also forced a commendation for that disaster on poor Aziraphale, who couldn’t get a word in edgewise around Gabriel to turn it down.) The second was for the Americans’ idiotic ‘War on Christmas’ nonsense.

If it had been for literally any other cause, odds are he would have taken the commendation and been the usual combination of mildly impressed and vaguely disgusted with humanity’s creativity. Twisting a solemn religious observance into an opportunity for unbridled greed, and then having the gall to turn around and complain that the people selling them things aren’t properly prioritizing their preferred (and ruined) religious observance, would be quite impressive under most circumstances.

But they’re ruining the entire point of a good friend’s birthday, and they don’t even have it at the right time of year.

***

_Kralia - the name is a stop-gap and she knows it, but it’s better than leaning on something that stopped fitting shortly after Eden - meets Maryam first, at a Purim party. Most of the crowd is on their way to too drunk to discern hero from villain when she gets there, which suits her fine (she really needs a way to cover her eyes, get on that, humanity), and the nature of the revelry is such that it’s not on sacred ground._

_An already-tipsy girl of… maybe seventeen, for all the good Kralia is at judging human ages, heads for her, hands her a cup of wine, and says, “I like your eyes.”_

_Kralia blinks for what feels like the first time in months. “That’s new. Usually they’re too weird for people.”_

_“I don’t mind a little strangeness in my life.”_

_From that alone, Kralia would like her, but Maryam sticks around, and they keep chatting as the party carries on around them. It’s the kind of surface-level conversation she’s had with countless humans before - getting deep into things with anyone other than Aziraphale is fraught for any number of reasons - but she’s enjoying herself regardless. Humans can be a lot of fun when they’re not being utterly terrifying. When she can let herself forget how blessed short their lives are._

_As humans start to stumble away or pass out where they stand, Maryam surprises her again, asking in a low voice, “Want to come to bed?”_

_The absolute last thing she was expecting out of this was to be propositioned._

_“Well, I wouldn’t object, as such. Would your husband?” Maryam could be here alone, sure, but that doesn’t mean she’s unattached. Humans have some weird ideas about what women can do on their own at the moment. Kralia would rather be sure Maryam can handle possible consequences in her personal life, if she accepts._

_“Oh, he’ll be up debating Esther’s heroics with the scholars until dawn. Besides, our marriage is more an arrangement of convenience so no one pesters either of us for children. He knows where my interests lie.”_

_“And he doesn’t mind? No wonder you’re keeping him around.” Kralia grins. “In that case, why not. It’s been a while.”_

_It has been a while (several centuries, longer since Kralia last did so with this corporeal configuration), and it’s as good of fun as she remembers. Maryam doesn’t even kick her out of the house afterward, and Kralia’s too sleepy to think much of it until morning, when she wakes to the smell of fresh bread and quiet conversation._

_Shit. Maybe she should have left anyway. Spouses have a history of not taking it well when a side piece stays the night, wild party preceding it or not. On top of that, the air is weirdly itchy in a way that’s naggingly familiar, but Kralia’s not awake enough to place it._

_And then, because this is a small house and the bedroll’s in sight of the cooking fire, she catches sight of the husband. He’s older than Maryam (but not, Kralia thinks, to a creepy extent), and he’s laughing quietly at something she said, and… he utterly reeks of holiness. That explains the itch; it’s not the same as Aziraphale, closer to (but still not quite like) when the archangels show up to be pompous and condescending._

_“Oh, fuck me,” she says, and freezes when they both look at her._

_And Yeshua bar Miriam smirks - that’s the only word for that smile, Kralia’s sure of it - and says, “Well, if that’s how you intend to spend the morning, I’d better take my leave.”_

_Maryam doubles over laughing, and Kralia bolts once she miracles her clothes back on and remembers how legs work. Fuck, fuck, fuck, she really should have asked exactly who the husband was. She hadn’t even considered that the kid would get married! What little gossip Aziraphale had overheard about this latest stupid segment of the Divine Plan suggested it wouldn’t even cross his mind! How was she supposed to predict this?_

_She’s hoping to get as far away from them as possible, but Nazareth isn’t exactly a big town, and there aren’t that many places she can go. It’s not long before someone catches up with her. The prickle of divinity in the air makes it clear which, and now that Kralia’s paying attention, Yeshua’s aura isn’t anything like the archangels’ at all. It’s too grounded. She can’t put her finger on it, but it wouldn’t make a blessed bit of sense without Earth as a factor, somehow._

_“So,” Yeshua says. “You know my Mother.” There’s no one else nearby, but between the two of them, it wouldn’t matter if there were; they could easily still have a private conversation._

_Kralia sighs; it’s beyond obvious which Mother he means. “Used to. I’m not sure how much anyone can claim they do, these days.”_

_“That makes you more sensible than many. Even I wouldn’t claim to fully know Her mind.”_

_“What do you know, then?” The question’s out before Kralia can stop it - she never did learn when to stop asking questions, and if Falling didn’t break her of the habit nothing will - but to Yeshua’s credit, he considers it seriously._

_“I know how to build a house. I know my wife was sad you didn’t seem interested in staying for breakfast.” He meets Kralia’s eyes without flinching, not looking at her so much as right through her (some time from now, Adam Young will prove it’s something of a family trait). “I know that lashing out in anger is often easy, but does more harm than good in the long run, and I think it’s time to try another approach.”_

_Kralia snorts. “Good luck with that one, carpenter. Humans are as stubborn as they are narrow-minded, and no one else is likely to listen.”_

_“Perhaps, but if only a few people do, that’s enough. Are you sure you don’t want to come back for breakfast?”_

_“All things considered, do you really think that’s such a good idea?”_

_Yeshua grins. “Oh, I’m sure you can come up with some way to cover for yourself.”_

_So Kralia does._

***

Every year, Crowley tells himself he needs to remember to check the date sooner. Every year, he completely forgets to do it until the fast-food chains start advertising their fish sandwiches again. At least now he has that reminder; he used to forget all about it until Passover was kicking into gear, depriving him of time to brace himself.

The fish sandwich ads are on the late side, this year (perils of a lunar holiday), but Crowley duly flips a calendar open when they appear - and swears in a number of long-dead languages. Of _course_ , first spring since the world failed to end and Yeshua’s birthday is on the worst possible day. Why wouldn’t it be. She’s probably having a laugh at his expense.

He can’t really fault the humans for moving the birthday party to the wrong month. One celebration being shifted out of spring was inevitable, and it was easier to move the one that’s not on paper as having taken place during Passover. That it also provided handy cover for assimilating existing winter holidays into the fold probably came off as a bonus.

Easter, though, that just pisses Crowley off all round. They went and turned the senseless execution of a genuinely good man into an even bigger party than the one they put on for his birthday. If Crowley were capable of withstanding the interior of a church for more than about two seconds, he’d go into them all just to rip the representations of a torture instrument in use off the walls. (He’s long since accepted that realistic portrayals of Yeshua aren’t going to happen much of anywhere outside Palestine - humans do like seeing themselves in things, especially would-be savior figures - but putting those bad likenesses on a symbolic crucifix is just salt in the wound.)

Like there’s anything good about executing someone. Humans, honestly. Of course it’s the fucking Friday this year.

Well, at least he has a bit over a month to prepare for it.

***

_Kralia hadn’t been intending to stay in Nazareth long, but the company’s unexpectedly good and she’s spinning it in her favor. It’s expected that she won’t make much headway with Yeshua, but claiming to be giving temptation of the Son of Herself a go is worth several commendations on its own, to say nothing of taking his wife to bed on the regular. If Hell doesn’t realise the arrangement’s mutual, she’s not inclined to inform them._

_Maryam’s a firecracker. Kralia’s not sure how much she knows about what’s going on behind the curtain, but she can’t see Yeshua leaving his own spouse completely in the dark, and Maryam takes enough of Kralia’s oddities in stride to back that thought up. She spends most of her free time doing what she can to help the local sex workers get by, and being frustrated that it’s not enough._

_It’s never enough. It won’t be enough until there are more options for a woman down on her luck. But Maryam makes it a little less awful for them, levels the playing field as much as she can, and that’s got to count for something. Kralia really oughtn’t like it as much as she does._

_Before Kralia knows it, a full decade’s blown by, and Yeshua’s pushing the envelope in a more public fashion. He does manage to reel some people in with the notion of practicing kindness as a first resort, though she suspects it’s as much the fact that he’s willing to engage in a little malicious compliance to pull one over on the Romans. The Jewish establishment can’t stand him, which Kralia chalks up to humans’ natural resistance to being told they’re in the wrong._

_If she thought he reeked of divinity when they met, it’s a thousand times stronger now. Kralia has to actively try not to scratch her arms raw when he’s on one of his parable spiels. It leaves her feeling sick, but not because of the holy aura itself (still too grounded in Earth to do her any real harm)._

_Aziraphale hasn’t been in the area in a long while, probably because of what little he was able to relay about this stupid, stupid setup the last time they talked. She could see he doesn’t like it either, in a way she only noticed about that blessed flood in hindsight, but Aziraphale has no power to shift Yeshua’s fate. He might have been explicitly banned from interfering, if Gabriel thought it was necessary, and in that case he wouldn’t want to stick around to watch._

_Kralia, though, is under no such restrictions. In fact, it’d make for a real doozy of a report if she could say she made the attempt to sway Yeshua away from his impending doom. And if it doesn’t work… well, she’s selfish enough to admit she wants some time with her friends while she can still claim it._

_It’s a couple years of back and forth on the necessity of Yeshua’s compliance with the plan before Kralia finally hits on an angle that might work, or at least gets a different answer than usual. “All right, fine, if you really believe you have to do this, you might as well see what you’re throwing your future away for. Grab Maryam, we can make a proper vacation of it. Around the world in forty days.”_

_“And how am I supposed to explain being away for that long? How are the two of you, for that matter?”_

_“Tell your other friends you’re wandering off into the desert for some contemplation or something. I never bother explaining myself, and it’s unlikely anyone’s going to ask Maryam where she’s been if you’re gone at the same time. I’ll handle the travel and translation concerns. Just… let me give you this.” She sounds desperate, and she hates it, but the looming end of this part of his Mother’s little experiment is weighing on her mind. At least she’s not outright begging._

_Yeshua’s quiet for a long while, but eventually nods. “All right. Let’s go.”_

_So they do. Kralia takes them everywhere she knows of with an established human population, lingering long enough for them to see the sights and eat the food (she still doesn’t really get food, but Aziraphale would be very put out if she didn’t see to it, and they need to eat regardless) and generally have a good time before moving on. By the end, she’s not sure it’s made the point she wanted it to, but she has some hope._

_They’re sitting on a quiet spot along the Qin empire’s border wall, left unharassed by the patrol thanks to a little demonic miracle. Yeshua’s staring off into the distance in a way that usually means he’s going to pull some deep insight out of the clouds (or, possibly, his arse); Maryam’s watching a few crows squabble over some shiny trinkets they got from who knows where._

_“You remind me of the crows,” she says, after a while, and Kralia’s caught completely off guard._

_“I’m not a bird, you know.” She hasn’t even seen Kralia’s wings. Where did this come from?_

_“I know, but you remind me of them anyway. Prone to mischief, too clever for your own good, desperate for social contact you can’t quite manage to sustain.”_

_Kralia wants to scoff, but she can’t really argue with any of that. Mischief’s already proving more fruitful for professional purposes than intense focus on one human at a time, and her schemes blow up in her face as often as not, and she doesn’t really have any friends, other than these two and Aziraphale. There might be something she can use for the ongoing name problem in there, somewhere. Maybe she should see if Eric the Legion can spare a corporation to raid the translation files._

_In any case, that’s about when Yeshua comes back down to Earth from whatever cloud his mind was on. “Thank you for this, my friend, but it’s time we headed home.”_

_“Probably, yeah. You… have you given any more thought to what I said?”_

_“More thought than you know. It’s a terrifying prospect and I’ve never once pretended otherwise, but if you’ve shown me anything during this adventure, it’s that Earth is more than worth the trouble.” Yeshua smiles, a little sadly. “Let’s go. I need to finish what I’ve started.”_

***

Of course, having realised the date aligns horribly this year, Crowley can’t stop thinking about it. Technically, the date aligns horribly _every_ year, but more often than not, the humans aren’t making a big stink about it at the same time.

He’s irritable all through March, snapping at people and venting his frustration through petty mischief, even though it’s not a requirement anymore. Aziraphale’s seen this happen before, so he just shrugs it off, bless him.

It’s Anathema who eventually calls him on it, via text message once they’ve seen the back of Saint Patrick’s Day (another of Crowley’s least favorite human holidays for its namesake’s blatant anti-snake sentiment). He’s not expecting it, which is the only reason he sends her any sort of reply at all; he’s rather fallen out of the habit of trying to have human friends, but there’s something about preventing Armageddon that’s made a few of them harder to shake off than usual.

Once she weasels the root of Crowley’s snappishness out of him, her response takes him completely by surprise. _You’re grieving. You’re grieving and living in a place that rubs it in your face every year. Anyone would be angry faced with that._

He wants nothing more than to tell her she’s got it all wrong. Grief is one of those emotions demons pretend they don’t feel, never mind that every single one of them has been doing it on some level since they Fell. Grief, like empathy and love and happiness (distinct from schadenfreude and self-satisfaction), just gets in the way. The idea that it’s impossible for demons to feel those at all is one of Heaven’s fabrications, along with the notion that demons don’t remember what Heaven used to be like.

(Of course they remember. What greater punishment is there than knowing exactly what you’ve lost?)

But Crowley’s retired now, and free to feel whatever he pleases, and Anathema’s right - and not waiting for him to answer anyway. _What do you usually do the day of?_ she adds, before he can reply.

_Drink until I can’t stand. Sober up and do it again, if it overlaps with human stuff._

_I want in._

Crowley very nearly shouts at his phone in response, like she could hear it at the moment. _You want to die of alcohol poisoning? Your liver couldn’t hope to keep up, Book Girl._

_I don’t need to keep up, but you need the company. Besides, I have some questions._

_Of course you do._ But that’s why he likes her. Anathema’s unafraid to ask questions in a way most humans lose when they hit puberty.

If it might keep him from drunkenly raging at Aziraphale about the unfairness of something he really ought to be over by now, he might be willing to indulge her, this once.

***

_In exchange for enough wine to get all dozen or so of their corporations utterly plastered at the same time, Eric the Legion is more than happy to raid the translation files on Kralia’s behalf. They even cross-reference with possible future languages, just in case that might have what she needs, which is a step beyond what Kralia was expecting. Must have been some really good wine (and they’re probably angling to call in a favor at some point, as well)._

_By the time they get the list to her, Yeshua’s preparing to head for Jerusalem, his divine aura getting more and more itchy by the day. Kralia’s not sure if they’ve passed the point of no return or not - it’s certainly on the horizon, if not beyond them. She shouldn’t follow him to the city._

_Maryam’s going to need the support, though. Especially if and when this does go pear-shaped._

_Aziraphale’s somewhere in town when Kralia gets there - ordered to see the horrible end of this disaster, possibly - but for once, he’s not the most distracting problem on her plate. They’ll have all the time in the world to catch up with each other, but for Yeshua, time is rapidly running out._

_On the cusp of Passover, she can’t take it anymore, and manages to catch Yeshua away from his followers. “This time I am begging,” she says, unwilling to dance around it anymore. “Please, don’t do this, I’ve seen how your Mother’s schemes end before. There’s got to be another way.”_

_“If there were, Maryam and I would have found it by now. You’re not the only one with concerns. I really do think this will be worth it in the end, my friend. Besides, this isn’t just for the people here - it’s for Earth, and anyone connected to it.”_

_“I really don’t see how that’s meant to make me feel better.”_

_Yeshua smiles - the sad one again, it’s been the sad one since their vacation. “Someday you will. You should come to the seder tomorrow. You like arguing with everyone about the exodus from Egypt.”_

_That just stings even harder, since there’s nothing Kralia would like more. “I can’t. The second you serve that meal, and we both know you’re going to be the one passing it around, you’re going to turn it into something I’m not sure I’ll be able to touch, let alone consume. Your aura’s got completely out of hand in the last few months, and this is one of those times they’ll ask why I’m not eating anything.”_

_“You have a point. Still, I’ll find a way to share a meal with you again, no matter how long it takes.”_

_“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, carpenter.” Kralia sighs. “If you insist on going through with this idiocy, I’ll be there for the end. But you deserve a better birthday present than execution.”_

_She retreats to the room she’s claimed in the city, and mulls over the list Eric the Legion gave her, fiddling with the smoked-quartz glasses she picked up in the east and working on the problem of her name until the beacon of Yeshua’s divinity can’t be ignored any longer._

***

There’s one CD Crowley has diligently refused to keep in the Bentley since she decided everything needed to be Queen, sooner or later, even when it was originally a cassette. Humans wouldn’t have been able to have anything like it until digital music caught on and they could make their own compilations, and even then it holds far more than it should. It’s nothing much, just an assortment of songs he only brings out once a year - songs he thinks Yeshua would like.

Anathema’s probably going to give him no end of shit for this, but he doesn’t care.

“You remember the rule, right, old girl?” he says as he settles into the driver’s seat. “No fucking around with this one. I’ll do it myself if I think it needs any additions.”

_You say God, gimme a choice,_ she grumbles via the current CD (Mussorgsky, according to the label when he ejects it).

“Take that as a yes. Or you’re just looking forward to carting Book Girl about again.”

Anathema does raise an eyebrow, when the Bentley pulls up outside her house and isn’t blasting the usual, but she doesn’t ask and Crowley doesn’t elaborate. The most effort he makes to modify his speed on the way back to London is sticking below triple digits - the sooner he’s getting drunk, the better. In relatively short order, they’re settling in on Aziraphale’s couch (or armchair, for Aziraphale himself).

After they’ve all got their wine, Anathema says, “So, tell me about him.”

“Come on, Book Girl, like you don’t already know a lot.”

“I know a lot about the _idea_ of him, sure. But we’ve had two millennia to twist the story to be whatever we needed it to be in the moment. That doesn’t tell me anything about the man behind the story, but you can.”

“Come to think of it, I haven’t heard much about your association either,” Aziraphale adds. “You’ve never been in much of a mood to talk about him so much as the injustice of what was done to him.”

Crowley sighs. “Can you blame me for that, angel?”

“Not in the slightest. It _was_ terribly unjust. But I think she has a point, dearest.”

Anathema nods. “Plenty of human cultures mourn by sharing the good things about someone they’ve lost, instead of dwelling on their absence. We might only be two people, but getting his actual legacy out there might help you a little.”

***

_“What was it he said that got everyone so upset, again?” she says, like she doesn’t already know. But then, she’s not asking for the information so much as the delivery of it._

_Aziraphale can’t meet her eyes, visibly pained by the scene unfolding in front of them. (She hopes this shakes his faith in Heaven a little, even as she hopes nothing ever shakes Aziraphale’s faith in God; she wouldn’t wish Falling on anyone, let alone the only angel worthy of the name.) “‘Be kind to each other.’”_

_“Yeah, that’ll do it.”_

_They both know it’s meant to get better after it gets worse, but that doesn’t make the bit where it’s getting worse any less senseless. Still, she’s glad Aziraphale’s here, both for his company and because it gave her an excuse to update him on her name, now she’s figured something out. Some languages that might develop north and west of here have a useful name for Maryam’s favorite bird, and it’s close enough to her second name that she can probably convince Hell to start using it without too much trouble. She’s still working on altering the sigil, but telling Aziraphale was the important bit._

_“You may not want to linger, after this. Uriel’s been put in charge of planning for the rest of the weekend.”_

_“Well, at least it’s not Michael, but… you’re not wrong.” She doesn’t want to stay anyway, not after this._

_Crowley stays put on Golgotha until the deed is done, the sky goes preternaturally dark, and she seems Maryam leaving. Like - well, like Somewhere if she’s going to let her friend be alone after her husband’s execution. It’s unlikely anyone will decide she’s part of the problem, but just in case, she deserves defense._

_And either way, they both need comfort. Maybe they can find it together._

_“Your heart’s with someone else, isn’t it?” Maryam says, after a few solid hours of both of them not thinking about anything but each other._

_Bless it, but she’s good at making Crowley blink. “What? What gave you that idea?”_

_“You have one friend, other than--” She leaves it at that for a few moments, likely unwilling to say ‘me’ rather than ‘us.’ “And sometimes it’s like you can’t stop talking about him. Was that him you were watching with?”_

_“It was.” Her mind is constantly on Aziraphale, sure - he’s literally the only other being in Creation who’s seen the world remotely like Crowley has - but her heart? That’s another matter entirely, and a giant fucking problem if it’s true. Which it isn’t. She doesn’t think._

_“Just something you should think about,” Maryam says, like she hasn’t just turned Crowley’s world on its head._

_“Maybe. You should… consider not sticking around, given the situation. Having turned on your husband, they might decide his friends need pursuing next.”_

_“They might, but that can wait until after the weekend. I’m either going to see him out of this mess or properly wrapped for a funeral, and I can’t very well do that tomorrow. If you can wait that long, though, I’d appreciate a hand getting further away than I could manage on my own.”_

_There’s no sense in denying she’s planning to leave Palestine, even if Yeshua’s gamble does pay off. She hadn’t been planning to wait through the weekend, but Maryam’s request has Crowley intrigued. “Where were you thinking?”_

_“You know those islands east of the Qin empire? I liked it there, no one’s going to think to look for me that far east, and if they do they’ll have a hell of a time getting there themselves. So to speak.”_

_Crowley snorts. “So to speak. Yeah, I think I can manage that. I’ll probably still have to leave for the weekend, but I can get you to where you want to go.”_

_It’s over a month before Crowley gets a chance to follow through on that promise and take Maryam to Japan, before heading west, past where Julius Caesar gave up on Britannia. There, Crowley sheds Palestine. The hair, the clothes, the corporeal configuration - they’re all too painful to keep up, right now. He keeps the new name and the smoked-quartz glasses, and that’s it._

_He doesn’t think about Maryam’s comments on his love life until Aziraphale invites him to share a plate of oysters. After that, going to bed with humans rather loses its appeal._

***

Crowley needs a bit of wine in him before he’s willing to start sharing stories, but in the end he has no reason not to. It wasn’t just the injustice of the whole stupid plan that kept him from telling Aziraphale much before - it wouldn’t really have been _safe_ for him to admit how close a friend Yeshua was, not when Hell thought it was just an attempt at long-game temptation. Still, he can share those stories now, leaving his audience of two laughing more than once.

It’s good to hear someone laughing about Yeshua again, after the humans have largely worked themselves up into fearing him, or at least taking him far too seriously.

He wraps up the story of turning down an invitation to the Last Supper as he uncorks the fourth bottle of wine, and Anathema (just now pouring her third glass, smart girl) smiles, slow but brilliant.

“You mean to tell me,” she says, “that you’ve been overlooking a loophole for two millennia now?”

“Hasn’t been two full millennia yet.”

“Not my point.” Anathema points at him for emphasis. “You say he said ‘Earth and everyone tied to it.’ Who’s more tied to Earth than the pair of you, at this point? Sounds to me like he wanted to do something for you, not just humans.”

“What he wanted doesn’t mean it’s what he got.” It takes all of Crowley’s concentration not to snap that at her; they’re dangerously close to him lingering on the injustice of everything anyway.

“Doesn’t mean he didn’t, either. It also doesn’t mean that’s all you got from him.”

“All I got? All I _got_? What about any of this makes you think I got something other than my heart broken?”

“Your apology,” Aziraphale says, taking the steam out of Crowley’s argument as quickly as Anathema put it there.

“For what? He didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Perhaps not, dearest, but he still offered it to you, the first time you spoke. Why else would he have made a point of telling _you_ that anger was a failed tactic?”

Crowley drops onto the couch like a stone, waiting for his brain to catch up.

He and Aziraphale finally got around to talking about their respective experiences in the Rebellion after the canceled apocalypse - around Christmas, ironically enough. That was when they first pieced together some of the lies Heaven passed around about demons, knowing most angels wouldn’t dare asking the other side to find out for themselves whether the information was true. (Everyone Crowley had known Before was either not worth seeking out or in the pit alongside him; he didn’t meet Aziraphale until Eden. Otherwise, they would have untangled Heaven’s lies about what demons remember from Before a lot sooner.)

Crowley doesn’t want to go back to Heaven. He knew from that blessed flood that if anything had changed after Lucy’s snit fit, it wasn’t for the better, and seeing it for himself in that shoddy excuse for a trial (what had Aziraphale even _done_?) only confirmed that. He lost his faith that God would ever give him satisfactory answers for anything a long, long time ago, and anyway, Aziraphale putting up with him is all the redemption he needs.

But he’d said, in the depths of that set of wine bottles, that he sure wouldn’t mind an apology for being cast out over inconveniently timed questions. Not that he’s ever known what he’d do with an apology if he got it, but it wouldn’t hurt.

_I know that lashing out in anger is often easy, but does more harm than good in the long run, and I think it’s time to try another approach._ And Yeshua had had that _look_ when he said that, the same one Adam was using when he re-incorporated Aziraphale and refused his role in starting the apocalypse. The one where some part-human kid knows a lot more than they really ought, and is speaking from that information.

“You’re telling me,” he says. “You’re telling me She… made him play go-between?”

Anathema shrugs. “I mean, from what you’ve said, he might have volunteered.”

“Speaking as the last celestial entity who _definitely_ spoke to the Almighty,” Aziraphale says, “I suspect She knew you wouldn’t listen if She brought it to you directly. Considering it took you this long to consider the statement in a new light, there was likely something to that thought. Besides, you’ve always been a being of action. What better token of remorse could you ask for than an action taken to do better?”

“I don’t know, one that didn’t end in someone being tortured, maybe?” But there’s less venom to it than Crowley usually musters at this time of year. He’s blessed close to crying, and that’s just what he needs in front of Anathema.

Thankfully, Aziraphale doesn’t try to make it about ineffability, this time.

Anathema swirls her wine around her glass, seemingly lost in thought. “The nature of suffering is one of your oldest questions, isn’t it?”

“Well, _yeah_. If you have the option to do without, why make it a thing at all?”

“If you don’t know, I certainly can’t claim to. But humans have been grappling with that question for quite a while ourselves. Most often, we’ve settled on the idea that the good times wouldn’t mean anything without the bad ones to compare them to. Everything carries a risk of going wrong with it, but we take those risks anyway, and it’s worth it when they pay off. Sometimes it’s even worth it when they go wrong. Either way, I think it’s clear he took that risk for you as much as for everyone else.”

Human philosophy doesn’t always sit well with Crowley. (If he can thank Voltaire for anything, it’s for tearing the ‘this is the best of all possible worlds’ premise completely to shreds.) He’s not sure this idea sits all that well with him either, but he’s definitely heard worse.

He sighs. “I’m not drunk enough to cope with this. Get another bottle open, angel.”

Some hours later, after Anathema’s given up for the night and been shuttled upstairs to the bed, Crowley sobers up a little. He’s taken over the couch as usual, without a human on the other end of it; Aziraphale’s still in his armchair, reading a book and looking significantly sobered up himself.

“How are you feeling, dearest?”

‘Dearest’ is a new one, since the canceled apocalypse, and it never fails to do funny things to Crowley’s chest. “Dunno. Stupid for not thinking of any of that before. Still pissed off about shit that happened ages ago to someone who didn’t deserve it. But… not as bad as most years?”

“Perhaps dear Anathema was on to something, and you needed to remember your friend properly. As he was, not how you last saw him.” Aziraphale looks up from his book, frowning a bit. “ _Did_ you see him again, after…”

“After the execution? Nah. With Uriel and company swanning about the place, I didn’t want to take the risk.” Most days, he wishes he had, at least for a less fraught send-off than the one they got.

“Quite understandable. As is not over-examining conversations you haven’t really thought about in a while. Goodness knows you’ve had to point things out to me several times before they sank in.”

“Yeah, because you’re too trusting for your own good sometimes, angel.” Crowley sighs. “On the other hand, not meeting up again means Yeshua still owes me a meal one of these days. Still think he shouldn’t have made a promise he couldn’t keep.”

“Nothing you’ve said gave me the impression that he’d consider it such a promise. I think you’ll get your repayment on that yet.”

Crowley doesn’t answer beyond a noncommittal grunt, shifting about on the couch and trying not to hope too hard. He’s not sure he can handle being let down again.

But if Yeshua does manage to turn up again, without setting off or being the end point of a true apocalyptic scenario, Crowley can’t say he’d mind all that much.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure what all is on Crowley's 'definitely not grieving' mix, but the fic's [title track](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-k8HCUexXUs) definitely is.
> 
> My wife, being a much bigger classical music nerd than I am, pointed out once that the Book Omens variation of the Queen joke does an excellent job of matching songs to composers who wrote similar music (Tchaikovsky's "Another One Bites the Dust," Vaughn Williams' "Fat Bottomed Girls," etc.). So I asked for a composer with work similar to ["Bicycle Race"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GugsCdLHm-Q) and they recommended Mussorgsky, particularly [Great Gate of Kiev](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b8gs4TozJbQ).
> 
> Maryam going to Japan is a reference to the town of Shingo, which [claims to house Jesus' tomb](https://www.atlasobscura.com/places/tomb-of-jesus-christ). (The documentation supporting this claim surfaced in the 1930s and ~conveniently went missing during WWII.)


End file.
